


The Demon of the Opera

by Sandentwins



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Demon!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 10:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12724701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandentwins/pseuds/Sandentwins
Summary: The Opera House is said to be haunted. But exactly how true are these rumors? Could it be that Christine, a new lead raising to fame, could find something even worse than a mere ghost?





	The Demon of the Opera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [landofmusicandart](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=landofmusicandart).



> I...I don't know whether I'll ever finish this, it's just a drabble. Don't expect much of it.

It was very late in the evening, and the halls of the opera house were desert. After tonight's last representation, a dreading silence has started to settle the moment the audience had left the great gilded halls of the Palais Garnier, chattering about the masterpiece they've just seen and the performance of its cast, and already giving hints as to what tomorrow morning's critics would be. Seeing the faint smiles blinking here and there in the crowd of connaisseurs, most would surely be positive; and yet there would still be some that, out of pettiness or want for distinction, would try to drag opinions of the performance into the ground, spilling out their wannabe wise thoughts about the too-rich backgrounds, the dancers' lack of implication, and of course about the performance of the lead. Such was a common occurrence in the life of an opera singer.  
But for all the slander that would surface from the general good opinion, Christine Daaé didn't care. She had made sure to give her best tonight just like for every other representation, and felt proud of herself. She had felt as if her nerves would snap at some point, driven mad by the staring of the crowd that would be scrutinizing her performance for the tiniest flaw, the slightest mistake, the most unnoticeable stutter in her otherwise perfect delivery of lines and verses. As much as she feared their reactions in some way, she managed to pull through, and after two hours of playing her role under the spotlights and the gazes, she could wholefully declare herself satisfied with tonight's outcome. To hell with mistakes! If there were any, then she still would have room for improvement; had she not found any opportunity to push herself further, she could as well declare the end of her singing career. Such was what she had been taught.  
Alone in her dressing room, she was slowly working to remove her colorful make-up, proceeding at a soft pace to not smear it anywhere. Checking the small clock from the corner of her eye, she felt some relief wash over her: she still had time. There would be a toast tonight, to celebrate the last representation of _Twelfth Night_ , the new play put together by the Opera Populaire; the entire cast would be invited to attend, and rejoice before the next production started. Christine didn't have any idea yet as to what it would be, even though she's heard some rumors from the backstage crew. They've run a Shakespeare adaptation for the past two months, so maybe the next play would be something in Italian or French. She really hoped it wouldn't be the former, for her Italian was still rudimentary, and she hated singing lyrics she didn't understand. How could she bring out her full potential if she couldn't put the right emotions into her words? How could she play out all the nuances, all the subtleties of language and gesture if she didn't get half of the equation? For a moment, she pictured herself speaking a political matter as if it were a love declaration, and the thought made her chuckle to herself. She knew it was a serious matter that could discredit her if it ever were to happen onstage, but she deserved to have some rest from pressure, after all. She could allow herself to such thoughts.  
Putting down her towel, she looked at her reflection, to check for any spots of cosmetics she would have forgotten. Happy to find none, she quickly changed out of her complicated costume, into something more suited for the occasion. Maybe tonight would be the occasion to get acquainted with more of the crew members, or even to make some more friends. She knew how things were happening, in the performing business, and knew that she would need to strengthen her network of contacts. Most of one's progress could happen through sheer luck and coincidences, after all, and an event like this could maybe be the kick she needs to push her career into a whole new direction. Maybe she would meet some producer that actually knew what they were doing, and they'd offer her a contract in a better-suited opera house? She's come to grow fond of this place, and of the memories she made here, but she had to be realistic: she knew how everyone was judging her, judging her rise from chorus girl to lead singer. She knew very well that _some_ (and there was no need to say whom her thoughts went straight to) would be very happy to have her gone from the cast, or maybe from the company as a whole. Well, let them rejoice! If they were compliant enough, she could be out of here by the time next season rolled over. It was a painful thought, but it would be for the better.  
She tried not to think about it, as she headed down the stairs leading to the dressing rooms. The attendees would meet at ten, in the great hall, before heading out to a prestigious reception in town. There would be a toast, then endless chattering about various plans and projects, and Christine already knew that there would be whispers behind her back, likely led by that jealous Carlotta, who wouldn't miss an occasion to claim Christine had stolen her fame from her, and how she should have been the one to play the lead for these past months. But there was no worse deaf ear than one who didn't want to hear; Christine knew she could simply ignore these mean remarks until they'd eventually died down, as they always did. Why would she feel ashamed of her talent? She deserved that place, these roles, she did it all on her own. She maybe had risen out of luck, but she remained because of her skill and her voice. And anyone with half a brain could recognize it.  
The corridors were unusually quiet, for a reason she didn't know. The thought of being late lingered in the back of her mind, and made her stomach heavy with cold shivers. Christine didn't want to leave a bad impression by being late at her first end-of-representations party, so she hurried her pace, walking down the backstage hall. She knew her way around the place, luckily, so she was sure not to get lost. And yet she had the eerie impression that these halls, these corridors had changed in some way. Attempting to ignore that feeling, she kept going, taking a shortcut through some back stairs, and cutting through the stage.  
As she walked, however, the lights suddenly cut.  
Christine stopped in her tracks, looking around with startled eyes. She's heard a voice shouting in anger, a couple rooms away. Another one screamed, likely out of surprise. Did the electric lights fail down? The managers probably forgot to have them repaired… Hesitantly, she touched to the nearest wall she could feel in the darkness, and leaned against it. She heard another scream, closer this time. Knowing it would maybe be safer to not venture out into the dark halls, she stayed where she was, listening closely should anyone come over and trip over her feet or something. But she heard no one in that hallway, so she tried to progress through, keeping her hand on the wall as a guide. She heard some voices ahead, so she quickened her pace, needing to know what was going on. There was movement down ahead, and as her eyes started to get used to the lack of light, she could see confused shapes evolving in the dark. She couldn't see how many there were, but there were people.  
There was a loud hum in the air, and some more commotion. Then, a second later, the lights turned back on, and sighs of relief could be heard. Christine blinked, shielding her eyes from the sudden light, letting herself get used again to the brightness. After a moment of standing still, she drew her hand away, looking around to recognize where she was. She's ended up on the stage, and her eyes drifted to the sea of red felt seats unfolding between pillars of gold and marble. In her need for darkness, she had retreated behind a side of the wide curtains barring view to the stage; but once her eyes had readjusted, she walked out of her corner, back onto the planks.  
And suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks.  
Someone else must have seen what she just saw, because she heard a scream coming from the other side. But is wasn't a scream of surprise like when the lights first died; it was one of genuine fear. Christine felt her knees start to shake, as a cold shiver ran down her back. She heard commotion, hurried footsteps, and more voices echoing through the walls into an unintelligible mess. And in the middle of this, she couldn't move.  
For her eyes were locked onto the bloodied corpse sprawled on the stage.

"He's there!", someone screamed. "He's there, he's there! He struck again!"

And the screams just got louder. As for Christine, she still couldn't take her eyes off the gorey mess that was unfolding in front of her.  
It was a human body, yes. But...something in it has been so violently and savagely broken, as if knives have been lathered all over the poor creature's face. Its clothes were stained and heavy with blood, marred with gashes that showed deep, gruesome wounds. It was way beyond any possible recognition, and was now a mere shadow of a human being.  
Christine felt her legs give up, and she fell on her knees. She could see there was blood all around, going from the corpse to the ends of the stage, the props, the background drops. It was as if whatever caused this carnage had done it in the purposefully most barbaric way, shedding dark blood everywhere and making it splatter as far as possible. It was as if the point of this savagery wasn't to kill (for indeed, this bloddy thing was once alive!), but to destroy and tear beyond repair.  
And on top of this, Christine could still hear these voices, these scared and trembling voices. And they kept screaming the same thing. 

"He's there, he's there! The Demon of the Opera is there!"


End file.
